


Devoured

by ChloeWinchester



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Cannibalism Play, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/pseuds/ChloeWinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a rule about Will Graham that Hannibal has forced himself to obey. But that doesn't mean he can't play with the idea in the privacy of his mind palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devoured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Johniarty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/gifts).



The desire to devour Will Graham had to be ignored.

In every sense of that word, every implication and definition there ever was, it had to be thrown aside and forgotten during every encounter. He could not consume him.

Unless he asked him to.

Each little pull of those invisible strings he’d stitched  in the young man brought him closer, and closer still until he was literally in his arms. Of course there was a blade embedded in his precious flesh, but that was beside the point.

It didn’t have to be that way. He didn’t have to break Will as he had broken him, he didn’t have to coat the floor in his and Abigail’s blood and pretend that it didn’t hurt him as he was drenched in it. Will could have come into his arms willingly, without the blade being needed, without his pain having to jab its way into him permanently.

Even then, with Will so close, with the sweat lingering on his skin, his mouth salivating just for one taste, one small inkling of how this exquisite creature’s skin could slide down his throat, he had to resist. Only when he was truly his could he ever find the strength to do it.

Hannibal had had many fancies about what that might look like.

Over the eight months since he’d riddled his precious FBI affiliate with trauma he mused over how that night might have gone otherwise. If Will had agreed, simply, to go with him. To go with Abigail and have the strange family that may well not be right by any moral principle according to laws other than God’s, but he may have been happy.

He liked to amuse himself with ideas of what could have been, had that chance been given. If Will had walked into the fire and allowed himself to be consumed, and he had obliged.

In some visions he ran his palms over his flesh as firm and purposeful as one does applying a brine to meat. The heat of the young man, the gasps of life that he would issue, laid out on a rich oak table in front of a fire like the proper feast he was. How he would relish touching those warm curls, and scraping nails down his stubbled jaw, listening to the faint swallow as he took the glasses from the perch of his nose and set them aside. How beautifully vulnerable he would be.

He imagined one hand coming to rest around his sweet throat, hand cinching just a little, just enough for his thick lashes to flutter, his breath to grow hotter, his resolve to settle. He wanted to feel his pulse quicken with the flash of doubt and fear that he might possibly hurt him, and his Adam’s apple would bob around his purlicue and he would be so tempted to just keep squeezing.

But no, that wasn’t what he wanted. That wouldn’t be what Will wanted either. Not death. No, the word was devour, and so he would.

And with the blade he’d intended to stab his boy with, perhaps, he would hover over Will’s face, watch the firelight dance in his eyes, and cut his lips and his tongue open, just enough for them to plume with blood like sweet flower petals after the rain. And with the hungry application of his own, he would take that moisture away, allow them both to taste, to drink, and that is how they would begin.

Other times his consumption presented itself differently. The object of his obsession presented himself in front of that same perfect fire on all fours, just as bare as the other fancy, waiting. Oh he trembled with the draft of the vast room with empty walls and cold floors but the rug beneath offered some comfort to his joints. Despite this being fantasy, Hannibal was always sore that the priceless Persian was about to be destroyed with an elixir it couldn’t appreciate.

Again his hands applied the brine of possession, but his lips followed. Will’s trembling apprehension increased with the inclusion of his mouth, that same nervousness of being harmed always present. His bites started small, playful, chaste kisses patterned up his spine between each one while his hands still roamed and caressed him into an ease.

By the time he reached his neck the apples of his cheeks were pink, his eyes were closed in a soft shame and his breathing so labored.

“I think you’re ready, Will.”

His response was pressing his body back into the silk of Hannibal’s shirt and the fine fabric of his trousers, permission given, wanted. Hannibal would ghost his lips down the hollow of his throat, hook his hand on the slope of his hip to keep him still, and bite into his shoulder hard enough to draw his blood, Will’s sharp cry one of pain and mingled relief and pleasure.

Sweeter than any music ever recorded.

Another of Hannibal’s favorites was when Will bit back.

Pinned to the floor on that priceless rug, the fire roaring and flaring in his soft colored eyes to make them hard and passionate, his chest heaving in desperation and need for some kind of equality with him. In this dream both he and Hannibal were bare, gnashing at each other constantly fighting as to who would dominate who.

Hannibal let him fight, smiled at him and wrestled with this shift of power until they were winded and sweating and stuck and forced to continue this game just as they were, tangled together. Backs were shredded by nails, mouths painted in the blood of the other with the growling animosity and frustration Will undoubtedly harbored in that passionate soul of his.

He’d relish every moment of that ferocity and feed it with his own growls of want, his own frustrated desires and for once let his composure rest just awhile.

He had these thoughts about Will long before the stabbing in his home, sure. Of course he did. But it wouldn’t be right to do such things when he was addled and drugged and putty in his hands.

Deeply as he longed for Will to fall into his fire and rest there it wouldn’t be right for him to do so then, no. Pliant and soft as his lips might be, quiet as his moans of discontent at the taste of his own blood and flesh might have been, how feebly he would have fought and lost and given into his pressuring, he could never bring himself to do something like that.

Will needed to be sane, awake, alert and wanting, not curling for warmth on a therapy couch and waking unsure whether he should be afraid of him or not. It would be terribly rude to violate him so.

But he’d certainly given it to fantasy, to a playing in his mind of that easily swayed, sweating and tired body, voice lower but incoherent and only able to comprehend that the knife cutting away strips of his flesh hurt and the mouth that replaced his skin was hot and stinging rather than soothing. How he would blindly push away with the force of an overwrought marathoner and give in for sheer exhaustion and the odd sort of pleasure that came with this pain.

Again, however, he could never entertain it to reality.

That was the rule, after all. He mustn’t devour Will Graham against his will.

What if he had wanted it?

In the millions of things that could have happened, the infinite universes that occurred from that single moment of choice Will had to make, dripping on the hardwood, he liked to think that in one of them, Will said yes, Abigail disappeared like a good child and Hannibal was still allowed to embrace him.

Only this time his restraint would break. Face buried in the wetness of his neck and his face he would inhale so deeply and take in every miniscule detail about the heated body pressed against him. His lips would touch that wet skin first, a hand going to the back of Will’s head to keep him still when surprise threatened to pull him away. No, he wouldn’t allow that, he needed him close.

Slow, steady drags of his lips, curious kisses to see if sweat and rain tasted differently on him and it did. An eager tongue in and eager mouth would suck the joint of his jaw, the scrape of stubble on such tender flesh so used to such fine things resting inside of it sending thrills down Hannibal’s spine.

Again Will would attempt to get away.

“Shh…” He’d whisper, those same lips ghosting over his ear, strong body shoving him against the wall and pinning him there. “Shh...don’t pretend, Will. You’re an ugly liar.”

Though his body would stay tense his wet hands would cling to the back of his shirt as his roaming continued. The blade in his hand would slide up his shirt, popping buttons open. Each time the cold metal would come close to his hot skin Will would flinch and jerk a little further into the wall. A press of Hannibal’s thigh between his legs would confuse and calm him again, an assurance.

“I, I don’t feel safe,” he would blurt. The knife would fall from his hand immediately and be kicked away.

“How about now?” He would growl, not bothering to raise his head, too transfixed with new flesh to explore with such an eager mouth. Will’s fingers tightened.

“Better.”

He would taste, he would roam. He would suck bruises into sharp, wet hipbones and leave welted scratches along his thighs. His broad hands would rest on the small of Will’s back while his mouth savored the taste of his skin and Will was left twitching and moaning against the wall, soaking wet and panting and fighting not to make a noise for the shamefulness of what they might be doing.

Those ideas of his and thousands more rested in a vault in his mind palace, one he’d hardly dared to visit before coming to Italy. Those were things he didn’t want to dwell on too much. Resisting the urge of finding out how Will tasted was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to push through.

He was always so tempting.

Splayed on marbled steps, his head tipped back, his body open in offering to God, but it was not God looking down on him. It wasn’t God who would have taken such a sacrifice, it wasn’t God whose heart was shattered and fighting to gain purchase again in the same man who broke it to begin with. God had no heart anyway.

Standing still in the catacombs, wondering what may happen if Will came across him, one of those thoughts began to bloom.

Will confessed himself that he didn’t know what would happen when he saw him again, therefore there were endless possibilities as to what could.

His own mind decided on Will pinned to the wall after asking to be put there, asking to be roughed up and touched against these gritty and unforgiving stones while the detective roamed and searched for him in such a dark place.

Hannibal placed his hand over his mouth to quiet him, neither speaking a word because words would ruin it, ruin everything. His hand would stay there.

The other would slide down his chest and carefully, so careful, so gentle, so aware, would lift his shirt and trace the scar he’d left on him.

Will would bite down hard on his hand, surprise, sudden anger and fear and hurt overwhelming him enough to draw blood on Hannibal too with a near-to-silent scream. Hannibal doubted he would even flinch, but he knew his own eyes would give him away. The sadness there he couldn’t manage to get rid of that Bedelia often pointed out to him.

When Will was quiet he lowered his hand, looked at the blood now smeared on his lips and gently, softly, he would kiss it away. Let his lips burn on Will’s stubble, the thin, hot air of the hall making both of their breaths more like dragon fire than breathing. The moment a drop of sweat touched Will’s forehead he would kiss that away too. And all the while that free hand would touch his scar.

His mouth was sure to find it. Will, doubled over with his hands in his hair, tugging too hard, hot tears of confusion and pain in his eyes not fighting to get away but fighting not to speak and tell Hannibal things he already knew or guessed.

Blood would touch Hannibal’s lips and that thick, warm velvet that flowed in Will’s veins would coat his throat, his life would be there. A burst of it right on his tongue, flowing into him and livening him with it.

Oh how he wanted to tear flesh away but no, no, Will meant more than that to him. His blood was a gift, anything he could hope to taste from him would be divine. But it had to be given, just as this was.

The hand not pressing a nerve in his hip to lessen the pain would rest between his legs and mix the sensations altogether. Will would bite his own fist too hard and moan and Hannibal would be there to kiss them clean-

“Hannibal.”

He snapped back to his reality, to what was truly in front of him, the vault door closing sharply. It wasn’t the first time Will had said his name in the reality, but this seemed more important than the others.

He saw him, bathed in soft light with lost eyes and that brilliant mind locked away, both riddled with pain caused by the other he had half a mind to reveal himself and finally allow one of those fantasies to be realized.

“I forgive you.”

He stopped. Forgiveness. That hadn’t been a possibility he considered. Of all the infinite answers in the universe, all the other worlds where this went differently, he never would have guessed this one would be the one where he was forgiven.

He locked the vault.

He left.

For the desire to devour Will Graham had to be ignored.

 


End file.
